


Shellshock

by lesbomancy



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbomancy/pseuds/lesbomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little side-story as to what happened to my character in an old pre-launch forum RP for Star Wars: The Old Republic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shellshock

Bored. Bored. _Boring._

  
For the men of Devastator squad it was _all_ bullshit. Stuck in the sky with a navy man leading RSF, a fate far worse than death for the majority of any infantryman. It didn’t help that the fresh-faced Lieutenant was prattling on about operational codewords and warnings of severity and the need for haste. If it weren’t for the diplomatic incident following their last incident they’d still be knee-deep in the action they so sorely desired, perhaps somewhere it would do good like Makem Te, Rodia, or Kalee. 

  
  
Two replacements had joined the fold and their armor was white as freshly fallen snow and they were just as distant as the Lieutenant to the four veteran RSF commandos. The four others were veterans, most of them having a few commendations as well as enough hazard pay to buy their own estate on Alderaan. Sergeant Tahl Zizzy was the oldest and most experienced, a musclebound Mirialan man in his forties who was adopted by an Ithorian couple and raised vegetarian - it didn’t last. From a young age he found his way into fights and often stole from his big-eyed parents in order to feast on seedy diner food riddled with fat, grease, and most of all.. beef. Delicious, nutritionless bantha beef. He enlisted on his birthday and never looked back towards his humble, hippie beginnings. War was his life.. and he liked it that way.  
  
Corporal Lomax Kruudo was the resident corpsman. A veteran of several Coruscant Security Force SAC squads the Rodian man had gained a cult following amongst the fledgeling field medics after having used a mixture of alcohol, chewing gum, and crushed up ration cubes to bind a wound that - even with field dressings - would kill a man. Private Quom T'ree, a Snivvian, was only a veteran from pure staying power and when compared to the larger, more able human Private Eldeni Laa it was clear that her attitude, or lack thereof, was why she was viewed with such appreciation within the unit.  
  
They were smart enough to turn on their voice filtration systems to talk amongst themselves, the channel that Sergeant Zizzy picked up for the group being rightfully designated ‘0W-N3-R.’ They felt that it was best to 'shoot the shit’ before a mission between themselves, just in case something happened.. or failed to happen. Either way, they’d get their little chat in before the REMF decided it was time to land.  
  
“ _I don’t like him,_ ” Private Laa suddenly spoke up, her helmet trained on Norredi as she sat across from him. Kruudo gave off a snort of laughter from underneath his helmet, T'ree opting to look out through the cockpit in order to avoid the situation.  
  
Zizzy - “Zizz” amongst the enlisted - moved his hand to slap at her helmet, his clumsy seat-shifting giving off the impression that he was adjusting something.. but they all knew what he was doing. Making sure the kids played nice was his job.. it was every Sergeant’s job to heard the cats. “ _Cut it. This is live-fire.. he’s no Tavus but it’d be hard to screw the Kath hound on this operation,_ ” his comm clicked out as he began to rumble.  
  
“ _LeKitt’s first action since the war, he wants to be as renown as Kilran.. or so I think._ ” Kruudo’s interjections were always heavily accented, most of his words slurred beyond understanding due to his status as the unit’s 'immigrant.’  
  
“ _Still think the whole ship is too green._ ” Laa grumbled, “ _Only squad that saw action got half of it killed. Regular golden flakes in a turd._ ”  
  
Zizz had heard enough. The first RSF squad had unloaded, and from the chatter the second wasn’t far behind. “ _You know just how to get me hard, Coproral. When you’re done sitting on your autocannon for fun we could use you in the real world._ ”  
  
The ’ _Taxpayer’s Credit_ ’ was a fan favorite amongst the RSF stationed on the _Daginn_. While it’s previous users had died or retired, the weapon itself was an accurate bolt-spitting machine that could cut a man in half in 4.95242 seconds if it were aimed well enough at the enemy’s spine. It had three hundred confirmed kills, the majority of them hailing from the guerrilla resistance on Alderaan where it had a reported twenty-nine Sith force users pissing their pants before their eyes exploded into delicious giblets.  
  
It was no mystery why it was given to Private Laa. With various profanities and sarcastic slogans scrawled on her armor she earned a reputation for being a militant lesbian bad ass - something of a required in the space army for some reason. While not necessarily liked, her abusive comments and wet-thigh desire for large weaponry made her a hit amongst most, if nothing but for the novelty and security of knowing that she wouldn’t kill them in their sleep.  
  
“ _Switch to common,_ ” Zizz ordered. Everyone complied.  
  
The usual banter. Comms switched, the main channel flickered up in their HUD’s like a dancing grapevine with enough information to drown a small child. The pilot grumbled, telling the command ship in low orbit that he had a flicker-.. a faint flicker, but he felt he was safe. The fresh-faced Lieutenant stood up, walking to the cockpit to see for himself.  
  
Instruments were fine. Everything was fine. It was all going well, even his 'friends’ had made it on the ground without dying. Maybe war wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Norredi turned again to face the row of six, command voice kicking in as if he were announcing the soup of the day over the _Daginn’s_ comm systems.  
  
“ _Listen up! Standard SAC op with an HVI we need to snag before the Imps are on to us. You heard her code-name, heard all the plans, so I’m leaving the real by-the-second decisions to you, Sergeant Zizzy. If it were up to me I’d be on home, but that was apparently not possible._ ”  
  
The helmet in his hand seemed.. foreign. An invasive object, something he hadn’t used since drop camp. He peered inside the head hole, eyes squinting to see the time. A smile crossed his face - the holoportrait of her inside of it.. it kept him grounded. He was good to complete this.. even if he died, it would all come to balance. A sudden nagging at his earpiece forced him to focus, neglecting the RSF squad before him as he turned back to face outside the cockpit. LeKitt confirmed the cruiser he saw appear before his eyes as Mandalorians.. and not the good kind.  
  
Sergeant Borrit Sok, as if by some sort of psychic link, had already moaned into his ear about the new vessal.  
  
“ _Affirmative. LeKitt says the signatures it’s giving off are known pirates. We’re going to proceed with the pla-_ ”  
  
The NR2 rumbled with incoming fire, the cockpit’s thermoglass creating a small webbing with seven, maybe eight impact crates. The pilot looked stunned for a moment before a second round hit, several flechette charges breaking through the canopy of the dropship, one fist-sized lump cutting straight through the pilot’s skull, only stopping as it reached the durasteel of his helmet.  
  
Norredi skidded back as the blood from the punctured helmet squirted back lamely onto the leatharis chair’s headrest, almost stunning his mind entirely as his body engaged autopilot. He jumped over the twitching corpse to retrieve the stick, attempting to keep it up. The bashful Private T'ree unbuckled herself as well, moving to push the pilot’s seat to the side, all the while Zizz yelled at them both. His commands fell on deaf ears and the wildly spinning NR2 suddenly gained an image of something - a building. The governor’s spire.  
  
The stick jerked back, ship nose tipping to the right drastically as it lost altitude. In moments they went from a steady course with a pilot to a spinning zig-zag with an amateur at the helm. No surprise was had when the radar began to cry out - a missile attack from a fighter. Both stabilizing engines exploded outwardly, the wings all but hanging on by a thread as the descent towards Melas was becoming more apparent by the minute.  
  
Zizzy still barked for T'ree to strap in. Laa was bracing.. one of the new recruits was crying openly over the comm as the groaning bend of metal and the dropship’s alarm systems screamed at them like a banshee. Kruudo prayed as a shaft of engine coolant burst through the piping and began to seep a cold, thick mist into the shock seats.  
  
Norri kept calling. Kept reporting. Certainly the situation would resolve itself if he just kept reporting. His voice panicking, it echoed through the emergency comms - the whole fleet could hear. Everyone, including the Mandalorians, could hear his words. The spinning cockpit began to give him inner nausea, his body slowly being jerked in one direction as the one-winged bird came closer to a courtyard-.. then a road.. and then a fountain. A school. Impact.  
  
The grinding explosive force of the dropship colliding with the ground side-first scattered wildlife event miles away. The quiet jungle world had never seen such metallic carnage as the NR2 began to roll across the school’s courtyard, toppling playground equipment and speeders as it’s remaining wing bent inwardly to the hull. The canopy’s glass shattered - bits and pieces being sent everywhere as both Norredi and T'ree were thrown about like packing pellets.  
  
No motion, no stillness, no _anything_ save for a burning sensation, pain, and the sudden inability to see or breathe. With more bending of metal, Norredi’s vessal suddenly careened through the lobby of the school. A blocky printed mural was torn about in seconds, the brightly colored tiling flying forth with shrapnel and thermoglass. With a final groan, the downed ship slowly edged itself over a Sith Empire statue - fire and fluids both shooting out from cut lines and damaged engines.  
  
Silence. Norredi felt it again, the collecting of irony fluids in his throat; skin of his neck and shoulders suddenly finding themselves with an unending burn as if he were being branded. Images of her once more as the faint ringing in his ears subsided.  
  
Screaming. Autocannon fire. Death. His eyes suddenly jerked open, blood flooding over his lip and chin as he forced a breath into himself. The grim image of Corporal Kruudo’s body was presented to him as a greeting to reality, the light from the open drop ramp shining onto him like a racy art exhibit. The inwardly folding wing from the crash had pressed the hull into his back, forcing his body into the harness, trickles of blood beginning to show on the synthleather padding on the ribbing between his armor.  
  
With weakened stirring he became aware of his own wounds. He could barely speak, most of his neck, cheek, and shoulder covered in small pieces of shrapnel - a particularly large part sticking right out of the seared synthleather that covered his bicep and collarbone. Clumsy hands reached out towards the light - towards the sun. He shakily crawled towards it, stopping only to push himself to a shaky stand as coolant mist still poured through into the cockpit.  
  
Most of the crew survived. T'ree laid limp outside the wreckage, her helmet torn off with several spent stim cartridges resting on a black handkerchief neck to her neck. His body turned to see the open, cloudless sky of Melas and then.. a war zone. Soldiers and droids with Imperial Intelligence insignias were closing down on them, Sergeant Zizzy already having taken control. The two rookies? Alive.. as well as Laa, who was firing her autocannon and screaming obscenities at the troops advancing over the cover of the crash - strewn speeders and uprooted concrete from the impact.  
  
The blaster fire being exchanged dazzled Norri, his head bobbing between red and blue bolts like a child watching ballet. He couldn’t wrap his mind around th-..  
  
“ _GET YOUR GOLDBRICKIN’ ASS BEHIND COVER, SIR!_ ” Sergeant Zizzy? Norri suddenly found himself pushed face-first into a Thranta-styled bouncy mount which looked jammed between some playground equipment. A Thranta.. good luck.. very good luck to see one, even if his face was all but kissing it due to Zizz not trusting his own CO to not get shot.  
  
Private Laa’s showboating knew no bounds. With each burst fired she kindly asked if any of the Imperials were man enough for her, wondering aloud if they had any 'booboos’ or 'wanted a piece of this.’ He stared at her intently, not quite sure if he was seeing the real thing or not - his hands fiddling with a rifle Zizz had given him as both rookies coordinated throwing what little grenades they had to keep back the wave of gathering Imperial soldiers.  
  
It couldn’t have lasted forever. Even with the few impacting shots she got the entire group was still phased by the crash. The large dent in the back of Zizz’s helmet was explanation enough as to why he aim was so off. Norri’s head slowly eased up off the plastoid Thranta head, eyes frantically searching the area as his vision blurred.  
  
Dark black and red figures slowly made themselves known. Imps. Groups of four to five were encircling the building, the street, and the wreckage which was strewn out between the two. Too many-.. far too many. Laa’s autocannon and Zizz’s fire were beginning to dart between pieces of cover instead of actual figures.  
  
Zizz grabbed Norredi by the neck, dragging him by the collar into the ruins of the building, placing him in a position to offer covering fire. The autocannon stopped it’s firing, Norri only catching a glimpse of the “ _Taxpayer’s Credit_ ” and a piece of Laa’s arm as she fell back over a barrier, chest popping, black scorch marks rippling the armor.  
  
The rookies were already engaged in hand-to-hand, the colors of white and black beginning to blend as each force turned one another over cover, blood from knives arcing across pavement and dead Imperials alike. Their bodies became absorbed in the wave, and even Zizz’s panic firing into the closing crowd became absorbed into the scenery, his overheating rifle being discarded as several commandos descended upon him at the former steps to the lobby - the lobby where Norredi was supposed to keep firing from.  
  
Instead he stood, mind and body shaken by fear. Rather than give into the commands to surrender, Zizz covered the plastique charges on his webbing and his fingers curled as the tell-tale beeping began, letting loose a vicious growl before throwing himself forward, body stopped mid-step by a wave of Imp-colored blaster bolts. He detonated, a small crater being the remainder of himself and the squad that sought to capture him.  
  
Screaming. From his earpiece - his allies. The rifle was discarded as he retreated, stumbled, further into the building’s lobby. Imperials - with Imperial Intelligence insignia - began to slowly descend onto him like vultures circling prey. His pistol. Drawn, the barrel pressed to his temple. Orders, from Imps.. orders to drop his weapon. Lieutenant’s bars on his collar - a dead give away.  
  
With death so close so many times, a sudden hesitation to pull the trigger was odd. Odd to him. Why now? Why when it was needed? The Imperials didn’t care for his thoughts, nor his inability to end his own life. They opted to instead fire six stun rounds into his chest and neck, pushing him into blackness again.


End file.
